


Home Sweet Home

by Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Bruises, Caring James Wilson (House M.D.), Developing Relationship, Drug Use, Gay, Greg House Has PTSD, Greg House Loves James Wilson, Hurt Greg House, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, Injury Recovery, James Wilson Loves Greg House, M/M, Minor reference to torture, POV James Wilson (House M.D.), PTSD, Pining, Post-Kidnapping, Protective James Wilson, Recovery, Sleep Deprivation, Timeline What Timeline, minor PTSD, minor torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26784367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer/pseuds/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer
Summary: The man wrung his hands together furiously in front of him for a moment, looking down and squeezing them together. He wished he could squeeze the maniac's head between them until it exploded. Wilson didn't think he'd ever hated anybody so much.
Relationships: Greg House & James Wilson, Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 55





	Home Sweet Home

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [diagnosis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26768704) by [PewDiePie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PewDiePie/pseuds/PewDiePie). 



> Ohmygod okay so HGTNFI I had to write something after the events of the House MD kidnap/rescue fic 'diagnosis' after I read it I physically could not resist. I had permission to continue it in Wilson's perspective because we wanted to see the soft boi taking care of his Lemon Boy bestie <3 <3 <3 <3 I love these two sm  
> Anyway if you haven't read 'diagnosis' you NEED to check it out pls I'm begging thank you

"Home sweet home," House breathed the moment they stepped through the doorway.

His relief was palpable, and Wilson's eyes stung just watching the man stumble into his apartment. He was limping even worse than usual, even with the support of his cane, not that that was surprising. Anger flared in his chest, fury threatening to swallow him whole as he stepped through the door after House and turned to shut it behind him. As if the man wasn't in enough pain as it was, as if he couldn't hardly walk as it _was._ That bastard had gone and hurt him even more, and all things considered, House wasn't complaining as much as he had the right to. Wilson saw his face scrunch up every now and again, flickers of pain crossing his face as he grimaced and winced with each step he took. But he was silent about it for the most part.

It had only been a few hours since they'd found him. It was well past midnight, but Wilson didn't care. He wasn't that tired, but he figured House had to be. He doubted the man had gotten any sleep at all with the pain in his leg and having to detox from being off Vicodin for two days. Once again, silent rage consumed the oncologist as he stepped forward again and shifted his focus back to his best friend. He _wished_ he'd had a chance to get to that guy before he'd vanished. Oh, he wished he'd been able to get his hands on the maniac that had hurt his best friend. It was infuriating, knowing he was still out there. Knowing he could come back whenever he wanted to, knowing he could get his hands on House again. Hell, it wasn't just infuriating, it was terrifying. Wilson couldn't help but wonder if he _would_ return, if the police didn't track him down. What if he got sick again, with something else? What if he came back for House?

He shuddered at the thought, but he was thankfully drawn out of his thoughts when House fell back on the couch with an audible grunt, sinking back into the cushion. His cane fell to the floor, unneeded and unwanted for the time being, and Wilson took it upon himself to scoop it up.

"Are you hungry?" Dammit, he should've asked while they were at the hospital. He'd been too worried about tending to the physical injuries and seeing if there was anything else they should be concerned about, but House had been adamant in rushing them out anyway, insisting that the only thing wrong with him was his leg and the fact that he hadn't 'gotten any damn sleep'. Wilson, naturally, had caved and taken him home, seeing as it was late when they'd arrived in the hospital anyway and a full checkup could wait until the next morning. If he was being honest, he was more worried about House's mental state than his physical state, but he seemed… okay.

Even with the way his eyes tracked his cane as Wilson moved it, propping it up against the stand beside the couch. He only spoke when the oncologist had released it, narrowed blue eyes rolling upwards to meet Wilson's gaze. His stare was as intent as it had always been; he'd missed those eyes, he'd missed that face, and he'd missed his quiet, gravelly voice. "Yeah," House admitted, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch and shutting his eyes.

For the first time, he wondered if House had even _eaten._ His mouth went dry before he could figure out how to ask, and House wasn't exactly offering much information about the experience himself. He seemed content to just try and forget it had even happened, but Wilson found it damn near impossible - he'd only been gone for two days, but those two days had been…

… those two days had been agonizing. Terrifying. The first morning was spent worrying when House didn't show up for work. His team had dismissed it, insisting that House was always late. But Wilson had worked with the man for longer than they had, and he _knew_ House was late, but that was usually by an hour and a half at most. By the time twelve-thirty had rolled around, Wilson was blowing up the man's cell phone. When that didn't work, he'd taken off work to check his apartment. The door had been locked. Wilson spent at least thirty minutes pounding on it, and then the next fifteen minutes unlocking the door in a panicked haze. He'd had a sick feeling in his gut the whole morning, and it had only gotten worse when he'd done a full sweep of House's apartment, only to realize that he wasn't there, either. Wilson didn't think he'd even gotten home the night before, something he'd worried and stressed over on his way back to the hospital. And once he'd arrived, his worries had been confirmed. House was being held captive.

The man had shown up, telling them he wanted to be tested for MS. He went on, while Chase and Cuddy had to all but hold Wilson back from murdering the man on _sight_ , to explain that he had House somewhere and he wasn't going to tell them where or let him go until he had a diagnosis. Cameron was the first to agree to do the test, followed quickly by Foreman, and Cuddy and Wilson had spent about an hour trying to calm each other down while they ran the tests. It came back negative, and he had left just like that, off to wherever he'd had House. Wilson would have tried to follow him, if he'd had the chance to. But the man had vanished.

His anger had been at its peak, then. He'd screamed, he'd yelled, he'd trashed his own damn office and he'd _cried._ He was furious, he was worried. He didn't know where House was, he didn't know what condition he was in, he didn't know what that man was doing to him.

The relief he'd felt upon hearing House's voice over the phone the next day was indescribable. He'd tried to ask if he was okay, but that fucking _asshat_ had interrupted before he could answer. House himself had hardly spoken unless it was to throw in an idea every now and again. He'd sounded exhausted, and a little angry himself. The lack of interest in his tone hadn't been surprising, he figured puzzles usually lost their appeal when you were being forced to solve them, but it still hurt. Knowing he was out there, god knows where, alone with that maniac…

Wilson snapped himself back to the present, and House peered up at him through half-lidded eyes as the man jolted back to his senses, shaking his head furiously. "Lost in Wonderland?" House threw at him half-heartedly. "If you're trying to figure out what to cook, don't bother. There's not much of a selection in there. I'll get breakfast from the hospital when I come in tomorrow or something." He yawned after he spoke - and Wilson hardly had time to protest to the idea of House coming back to work that soon - and settled himself back into the couch. He'd practically curled in on himself, pulling both legs up with him with a wince. "I'm too tired to eat."

Finally, Wilson managed to ask. "Did you even eat… there?"

"Barely." House's casual response tugged at his heartstrings. It took about everything he had not to shuffle forward and hug him, but he didn't know if that would be well-received.

"How about…" Wilson shifted on his feet, frustrated with himself. He should be better at this, he knew that, but it wasn't like he'd ever had to deal with someone he cared about getting kidnapped and held hostage for two days. Taking care of House was something he should be skilled at, but right then he felt more lost than ever. "You eat something small now, then sleep," Wilson finally offered, and House blinked his eyes open again to look up at him, tired eyes flicking across Wilson's face slowly. "It might help you feel better," Wilson added quickly. "Exhaustion can present as a symptom of not eating-"

"Exhaustion can also present as a symptom of not _sleeping,"_ House interrupted dryly. But he dropped his head back against the couch after a moment, rolling so that he was practically curled up on his side, and pressed his cheek against the arm and closed his eyes once more. "But, fine, if you're so eager to cook for me…" Another yawn interrupted his words. Wilson waited it out patiently, unable to bite back a smile on time. He was just glad House was being his usual, sarcastic self at that point. He knew he wouldn't be expressing any annoyance over any sarcastic jokes or dry comments for a while now. "Then you can go right ahead, Jimmy. But I can't promise you that I'll be awake enough to eat anything by the time you're finished with it."

"I'll make something simple," Wilson promised. He hesitated a little over leaving his best friend alone for a moment, and admonished himself for it despite himself. The kitchen was literally one room over. Still, he couldn't stop himself from locking the door before he headed to the other room, and House, while he did watch him through those tired blue eyes of his, didn't say a word.

As promised, he whipped up the quickest thing he found. Chef Boyardee wasn't exactly the meal his best friend more than deserved, but he figured he could spoil House with all the food he wanted when he wasn't so tired. He paced in front of the microwave while it cooked and fought back the urge to be more of the mother hen he knew House must think he was. He knew House didn't like anyone fussing over him, despite how much he usually thrived for attention. He didn't like being coddled and worried over. He saw sympathy and nurturing as 'pity', which he pushed away at even the slightest hints. But he also knew House deserved to be well looked after right then, even if he didn't think so, and Wilson's worry wouldn't let him rest right then.

He brought the food in with the biggest cup he could find in the kitchen, filled to the brim with water. He'd had some back at the ambulance, Wilson recalled, but he figured his best friend could definitely use some more of it. He didn't know how much of _that_ he'd been given, either.

House was awake and sitting up when Wilson entered the room. He was still sitting Indian-style now, his bad leg on top of the other. He was rubbing his shin the same way he usually rubbed his thigh - leading to the horrifying realization that it must hurt even worse than the hole in his leg where chunks of muscle should have been. He stopped and looked up when Wilson entered, and the man tried his best not to let his stare linger as he sat down on the couch beside him, reaching out to clear some stuff off of the coffee table - by lightly nudging it off of the edge and letting it fall to the floor to pick up later - and set the plate and cup down carefully. "Spaghetti and meatballs and a glass of water," he sighed, sitting back. "Not my finest, but…"

"Better than saltine crackers," House grunted. Wilson could feel his heart stutter at the implication, chest tightening with fury and pain as he watched his best friend shift his legs to the floor, sitting normally so he could lean forward and start eating. "You're not hungry, huh?" House asked suddenly after swallowing a mouthful, glancing up and eyeing the oncologist skeptically. "How much have _you_ eaten the past two days, Wilson? I'm willing to bet not a lot."

"More than you," Wilson retorted. Admittedly, no, he hadn't eaten much. He'd definitely eaten more than _saltine crackers_ \- god, he was forever gonna be pissed off about that - but he'd been too worried to really be able to stomach anything. He'd been too worried to _sleep_ , but he also knew he had no room to complain about that, not with House sitting beside him with bags under his eyes, scarfing down Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs like it was the best thing he'd eaten in decades. The man wrung his hands together furiously in front of him for a moment, looking down and squeezing them together. He wished he could squeeze the maniac's head between them until it exploded. Wilson didn't think he'd ever hated anybody so much.

House finished off the food and downed most of the water before he sat back again, curling himself into the corner of the couch, and Wilson finally let most of his tension drain as well.

"Maybe you shouldn't go back to work tomorrow," he offered quietly after a while.

"I'm fine, Wilson."

Wilson shook his head slightly. He lifted his hands, rubbing them down across his face slowly. He knew House was fine, and he was glad for it. But he also knew the man could hardly walk, he knew he'd be taking as much Vicodin now as he was physically capable of without overdosing, he knew he'd be on guard with his patients - he'd seen how tense House had gotten after the Moriarty incident, he remembered when he'd dragged Wilson with him to help him pick out a gun to keep with him 'just in case', he remembered the late-night phone calls, House insisting he 'couldn't sleep' and 'wanted to talk about the latest episodes of The L Word'." Physically and mentally, Wilson knew it was going to take a little while to heal from this, even if House wouldn't be willing to admit it at first. But he knew it was important for House to take it slow. He knew it was important to press him into taking it slow. "A few days off work won't kill you," he chided gently after a moment, dropping his hands in his lap and glancing over at House. The man didn't respond, chest rising and falling silently, eyes shut. Wilson might have thought he was sleeping, but his nostrils weren't flared, and he wasn't even snoring. So, sighing, he continued, "you should… take some time off and… recover. Get back to full strength first."

"I'm _fine_ , Wilson," House repeated pointedly. His tone lacked the edge it would have usually had, something the oncologist, oddly enough, found himself missing, if he was being honest. "I'm not too fucked in the head to be able to go back to work. I'm not gonna have PTSD flashbacks or anything while I'm examining patients. Honestly, I'd prefer it if-" He yawned again, and Wilson decided he was willing to drop the conversation for the time being if it meant House could finally get some sleep, "-things could go back to normal without everyone worrying."

"Don't count on it," Wilson mumbled. "Of course we're worried, House. You were being held hostage by some maniac, none of us knew where you were, if you were okay, _I_ didn't-" House finally opened his eyes to glance over, as Wilson cut himself off and sank back again. He fell silent for a while, wringing his hands together again. It took most of his willpower to continue speaking, while House shifted to sit up a little more, frowning as the oncologist went on, "I was worried about you. I was _terrified._ I couldn't imagine what he was doing to you, what he was-" Wilson let his eyes flick down to House's leg for a second, and the diagnostician sighed softly. The man stared for a moment, remembering the bruises on his ankle and shin. "... it hurts, doesn't it?" He mumbled after a moment. House paused, ducking his head and looking down.

"Yeah," he was reluctant to admit, reaching out to rub his hand over his shin again lightly. Wilson breathed in shakily through his teeth as House pushed himself to sit up completely beside him. "Not that surprising. A few whacks with that-" He nodded toward his cane. "-are _gonna_ hurt."

Wilson stared at him for a moment, unable to swallow past the lump in his throat. "I'm sorry."

"Hey." House shrugged and sighed, but his hand was clenching his shin a little harder now. It had to hurt, but his expression was blank. "It's nice to know it can be used as a weapon if-"

"House," Wilson cut him off quietly.

House fell silent for a moment, rubbing his hand over his shin and ducking his head with a grimace. After a few seconds, Wilson breathed in through his teeth and pushed himself up, and tried to ignore the way House's shoulders twitched at the sudden movement. "I'm gonna get you some ice for that," the oncologist said simply, nodding toward his leg, and House only nodded. Wilson could feel the diagnostician's blue eyes tracking him as he headed back into the kitchen, only breathing out a quiet sigh of relief once he was out of sight and pulling the freezer open. As expected, House had a few ice packs inside, and Wilson took the time to wrap one up in some paper towels - and took a second to compose himself - before he headed back to House again.

House tilted his head back to look him in the eyes as he took the ice pack from him. Their fingers brushed, and House's touch lingered for a second, and Wilson's heart was melting in just that short amount of time - just before House pulled away, dropping his gaze again. "Thanks." The doctor stuck his tongue out, holding it between his teeth, pressing the ice pack over his leg.

Wilson sank down beside him after a moment, a little closer than he'd been before, but either House didn't notice or he just didn't mind, because he didn't try to claim the few inches of extra space on his other side in order to widen the gap between them. If anything, he seemed to lean a little closer when Wilson sat down, keeping most of his weight against the back of the couch. "You know," the oncologist began, and House flicked his gaze toward him. "If you want, you…" Wilson hesitated, but only for a few seconds, steeling himself again rather quickly. House had to know he was there for him - well, he was sure he did know, because Wilson was very rarely ever _not_ there for him - but regardless, he wanted to say it aloud. He wanted to have it out there.

"I know, Jimmy," House interrupted when Wilson opened his mouth to continue. The oncologist snapped it shut again, pressing his lips into a thin line and looking down at his curled-up friend. He was stretching out now, though, spreading both of his legs out toward the arm of the couch and using his good one to push the other one up on the arm to keep it a little more elevated. This had him leaning more toward Wilson, and the oncologist shifted slightly in preparation to move if House needed him to - only for House to reach back to grab onto his arm, all while using the other hand to keep the ice pack pressed over his shin while he moved. Once he had finally gotten his lower half into a comfortable position, he shifted sideways so he could lay down with his head resting against Wilson's shoulder, finally releasing his arm with a sigh. "Better. Anyway, I know. And I promise to tell you all the dirty little details, tomorrow, at work," he emphasized, and Wilson made a face. "Over breakfast, when I'm a little less sleep-deprived."

Wilson glanced down for a second, to where House's arm was stretched halfway over his leg. The oncologist's own arm rested just overtop of it now that House wasn't holding onto him - and for a moment, he marveled over the fact that House, who wasn't really one for physical contact, was practically using him as a pillow at that point. It almost served as a distraction for his worried, stress-hazed mind, giving him a brief moment of clarity and relief that House was back, he was safe, and Wilson was right there to make sure nothing else happened to him ever again. The need to protect his best friend had never been so strong before. "Fine," he mumbled, sinking down slightly into the couch and leaning his head to the side to rest it on top of House's. "I've got some adjustments, though. How about you tell me over breakfast here, and you can sit right here and watch TV and I'll make you the biggest 'breakfast-in- _couch'_ you've ever had."

"I've never had a breakfast-in-couch before." House chuckled tiredly.

"It's an upgrade from breakfast-in-bed," Wilson hummed. He startled a little, feeling House's hand brush against his arm, and looked down. The man was shifting slightly, not moving his head, but adjusting his torso; he settled quickly after a moment, with his hand now curled around Wilson's wrist, and the oncologist couldn't bite back a sleepy, relieved smile in time.

"Fine," House finally caved, sighing. "One more day off won't kill me… might kill someone else," the doctor added thoughtfully, and Wilson huffed out a chuckle despite himself. "But not me."

"'Night, House."

"Goodnight, Wilson."


End file.
